


Mundane

by justsomewords



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsomewords/pseuds/justsomewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I felt like he'd always been in my life, even if he was in the shadows. I didn't mind when he came to light. What is strange will always, with time, become mundane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Side A

It's funny how quickly the strange become the mundane.

You get used to the patterns, no matter how bizarre they seem at first. I think we're trained to see patterns from a young age. I feel like we're all put into position to do so. To make sense of our world through repeated experiences. That's how we learn as children what we should and shouldn't do. That's how we adapt and how we flourish.

It's kind of amazing, if you think about it.

How easily we can get used to things.

It took a while to get used to him. To the idea of him. To how he showed up throughout my day, seemingly out of nowhere. It scared me a little, at first. Made me wary. But I slowly started to realize, we were just finding each other by chance. Our daily lives intersected. I saw his face and his chipper wave as I went by and I could feel the smile tug at my lips. It felt like we were closer, then. Like we were hanging out, even though we scarcely shared words.

When we did, it was by chance too. Meeting on the street, talking about work. Sometimes he had a sudden order that he remembered he was overdue to place. He'd never placed an order before, but it seemed like he was just too busy to remember to. It made sense. He was busy. He had a lot to keep track of. Maybe he always placed his orders through someone else. Maybe he was my best customer and I never knew. It didn't really matter, in the end.

I brought it with me and he met me along the way. He seemed to know which routes I would take before I even planned them and he found me before I had a chance to call him to meet up. He seemed disinterested in the parts when he took them, but he likely wasn't even the one that was going to use them. He didn't seem like that sort, anyway.

He always asked me the strangest questions. They were impulsive questions that seemed to not have any sort of rhyme or reason. I never saw him as very curious, but he grew moreso by the day. Weird things like what shampoo I used or whether or not I was having dinner. How was my Allmate, how was work, how was my grandmother. Things that shouldn't be strange but never seemed to follow any distinctive thought line. What album did I buy recently, have I been keeping up with this season's fashion, what kind of socks do I wear. I told him truthfully. I had no reason not to.

He walked alongside me as I went between deliveries, occasionally glancing at people or alleyways suspiciously. I thought maybe he was paranoid, or that he thought we were being followed. It finally got to me one day and I asked outright. He looked startled for a moment, but then smiled charmingly. It was nothing. Just business.

I got used to his errant glances and how he seemed to never be listening. I learned that he was always listening, even when he seemed like he wasn't. I would try to trick him and answer ridiculously sometimes, or throw in a nonsequitor that would surely prove he wasn't paying attention. He always caught it. He always teased me about it. He made me smile.

I got used to seeing him, which was something I didn't think I would ever say. I did, though. He started bringing me drinks when we met up, always ordering something he knew I would like. He was used to remembering what people liked, he said. I don't know how he ever found out in the first place, but he paid more attention to those sorts of things than I did. Maybe he'd even asked at some point. It didn't really matter.

Eventually, it was a drink and a snack. Then it was the suggestion of a meal. Before long, I stopped bothering to pack anything. Before long, I was eager to go on my deliveries. We never spoke on the phone or sent each other messages. He was just part of my routine, in his own slightly paranoid, overly curious way. We stopped at cafés and little shops sometimes. He started distracting me constantly while we talked. What do I think of this? How does that sound? Which thing would I prefer?

It was hard to keep on task. I got scolded a few times for being late, but it didn't matter. I was having fun. I was enjoying myself. Everything arrived safely, even when I was wandering into the parts of town I normally avoided. No one bothered us when we walked together. There was a reverence in their eyes, and a fear. I suppose that comes with the territory.

I used to think it would be weird or scary to be involved with that sort of thing. I used to keep my distance, to an extent. But it was fine. I don't know what I was so worried about. I knew he was a good person, and I knew that he liked me, so there was nothing to worry about. It was empowering.

He noticed that, actually. He commented. He saw that I wasn't nervous or wary of things like I had been. He said he liked it. I liked it too. I told him he had a good effect on me. He was happy.

So was I.

Before long, he asked me if I would join him for drinks after work. I don't drink, so I declined. That became a more regular question though. Not drinks, specifically, but going out somewhere. Doing something else. Staying together longer. He tried a dozen different ideas and venues. I always declined. He always smiled and said 'someday'.

Someday was sooner than I imagined.

'We're seeing each other, so I think a proper date would be best,' he said.

My heart fluttered when he did. We were seeing each other? When did that happen? The thought surprised me and I had stopped in my tracks. Once, twice, I ran it over in my head. Seeing each other? Date?

'What do you mean?' was all I managed.

He was right, of course. Once he explained it, it all made sense. We'd been dating already. He'd been seeing me nearly every day and treating me to things constantly. Drinks, snacks, food, gifts. I'd hardly realized there had been a change. It had been so slow, I missed it.

But he was right.

That day, I accepted.

'I'm happy,' he said.

So was I.

I was so nervous, but there was no reason. He planned everything out without my input, arrived promptly in a car I'd never seen before. He drove me around, chatting excitedly about this and that. He was still asking questions. What sort of food am I in the mood for? Do I want wine? Am I really hungry or just peckish? Should we plan for dessert?

This was a pattern too, I learned. One I could never quite place. No matter how I answered, he had it already in motion.

'Oh good,' he would say, seeming relieved. 'I book us a reservation at a place like that.'

And he always had. I did the same as I did when we walked. I brought up strange ideas, mixed and matched truly gross combinations of liquor and food and sweets. His nose wrinkled and he looked displeased, but that smile always came back and he acquiesced.

I always changed my mind before we had to suffer too much.

Even when I changed my mind, though, it was like he'd made reservations everywhere around town. No matter what I said, it was already planned. It was like a game that he always seemed to win, no matter how vexed he may have appeared.

I told him to make reservations under my name instead once or twice, thinking maybe his name alone garnered the appropriate response, regardless of whether or not he'd reserved anything at all. He always had the proper reservation. We arrived, Seragaki, party of two, and we were seated immediately.

It seemed excessive, when I stopped to think about it, but I rarely did. He told me not to. If he thought I was thinking too much, he interrupted. I let him distract me each time. He wore a look of confusion sometimes, or of worry. His expressions always looked bewildered or new, like he'd never shown them before. Surely enough though, he would stop me from thinking, one way or another. Then he smiled, and so did I.

Granny worried about me incessantly, but I tried to tell her it would be all right. I wasn't up to mischief, just going out to dinner. I was only having one glass of wine, I would call her before we left to come home. I offered to introduce them, but they both declined. They seemed unwilling to face each other, though they both said they deferred to my choices on the matter. It was awkward, but we got used to it. It was strange for me to be out almost every night, but it became mundane.

It was just routine. We met, we talked, we laughed, we shopped, we ate, we drank, and then one day he asked if we could spend more time together. He wanted to take me back to his apartment. He didn't want the date to end yet. He wanted to open another bottle of wine there and lay on the couch and digest. He wanted to watch something, anything I would like. He was already taking a different route home.

I declined.

I didn't know how to feel about it. It seemed so strange and forward, but I suppose that's because it meant so much to him. If he hadn't asked, would I have noticed before we arrived? Would I have followed him inside without a second thought? What would've happened if I did?

The thought made my heart flutter and my face grow warm. The thoughts were there from then on. It was embarrassing to admit, but I needn't admit it just yet. We were dating, so those sorts of thoughts were normal, weren't they? I wondered what he smelled like and how his hands would feel. I realized he'd never touched me even once in all the time we'd spent together. He'd always kept a distance.

I wished he wouldn't.

I wanted to know how fast his heart beat and how deep his breaths were. I wanted to know if his thin lips were soft and what lingering taste would be transferred onto mine if we kissed. It seemed natural to think like this. We'd dated a long time. This was a natural progression, wasn't it?

I fell asleep at night, thinking about him. What it would feel like to rest beside him, whether or not we would tangle up. I thought of how his body would feel against mine, if he would make the first moves or keep his distance as he always had. I wondered if he was shy. I wondered if I should be bold.

I touched myself sometimes, idly thinking of all of the possibilities.

I thought he would make a habit of asking, just as he had before. I expected each night to end the same, and it did, but without that crucial addition. It was the same as it had been. Nothing changed. I guess I was disappointed. I thought of it each night. I entertained the possibilities. I wondered what district he lived in, what sort of apartment he had, whether or not he bothered with decoration or if it was plain. He never started heading toward that other, mysterious destination again.

I wished he would.

I was getting tired of the mundane life we'd started living. I wanted the changes, slow or quick. I wanted him to keep pushing further. I wanted more of him to become mundane so I could seek out more that hadn't yet. I wanted him.

He was surprised when I touched his hand. I was too. I felt my arm tremble and the need to pull away, but I fought it. My fingers laced over his on the shifter. I squeezed them. His pale blue eyes darted between me and the road, his head never turning away from the path before us.

We are heading to his place now. We haven't said much. I'm trying to watch the streets so I know where it is, but my heart is pounding too hard and my thoughts are racing. It won't matter. I can take notes when he drives me home tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

I'm planning to stay the night.

I'm excited, but nervous. I'm impatient to get there, to walk inside. I hope it won't be awkward or tense. I hope things just happen as everything else has. I hope it's natural and easy like it has been.

I can't tell what he's thinking, but I'm sure he already has it all planned out. He always has everything planned out. I always like what he's planned.

I'm sure it will be a big surprise.

I'm so excited.

I can't wait for what he has planned.


	2. Side B

It's funny how quickly the strange become the mundane.

You get used to the patterns, no matter how bizarre they seem at first. I think we're trained to see patterns from a young age. I feel like we're all put into position to do so. To make sense of our world through repeated experiences. That's how we learn as children what we should and shouldn't do. That's how we adapt and how we flourish.

It's kind of amazing, if you think about it.

How easily we can get used to things.

It took a while to get used to him. To the idea of him. To how he showed up throughout my day, seemingly out of nowhere. It scared me a little, at first. Made me wary. But I slowly started to realize, we were just finding each other by chance. Our daily lives intersected. I saw his face and his lazy smirk as I went by and I could feel the smile tug at my lips. It felt like we were closer, then. Like we were hanging out, even though we scarcely shared words.

When we did, it was by chance too. Meeting on the street, falling into pace. His legs were much longer than mine and I never quite realized how tall he was until then. But he always managed to fall into step beside me, never faster nor slower. Sometimes I passed him on the street, sometimes he passed me, and sometimes, without any warning, he was simply beside me.

It unnerved me at first, to have him in my peripheral, barely speaking unless spoken to. He never made small talk and only responded vaguely to any attempts I made. It irritated me at first. I felt that he should be more invested in talking to me if he was going to be following me like that. It wasn't until we began talking longer, about deeper things, that he seemed to care at all.

Every conversation came quicker and easier than the last. I would simply pick up a topic and he would follow. He always followed, everywhere I went, from delivery to delivery. He never seemed to take particular interest in anything, his eyes seeming perpetually half-lidded and dull. He waited outside each stop, never taking offense to my walking inside and taking care of things. He was always standing just outside, hands in his pockets, and the conversation would resume as soon as we were a polite distance away.

There were few times he would break away from me, placing a single finger on my lips to still them. It flustered me the first time he did it and I loudly protested as he disappeared down some dank alley. I waited, scrubbed my lips, then decided I wasn't about to be at his beck and call. I kept going, complaining to Ren about his actions.

But soon enough, there he was again, unrolling his sleeves from his elbows and falling into step beside me.

That's how it always seemed to go. He rarely spoke when a single action would serve better. It took me a while to realize that, but I did. He trained me to read him without words. Slowly but surely, I became fluent in his language. A finger stilled my lips, a smile returned in kind, a two-point glance told a joke. He made me laugh.

I got used to seeing him, which was something I didn't think I would ever say. I did, though. I never knew exactly when I would meet up with him, but it became an inevitable, daily routine. He would be there and we would walk. He would listen as I talked about whatever came to mind. If it was around lunch, we'd grab something as we went. Whatever I wanted, whatever was my whim. He indulged me completely, even when my desires were left unspoken. He could read me, too.

Sometimes we'd stop at food trucks, sometimes we'd spend half an hour at a café. He delighted in whatever I chose, or so the curve of his lip suggested. He always pushed a little further than I was prepared, but I accommodated him. He liked to feed me bites from his plate and always insisted I feed him from mine. It embarrassed me to have that sort of exchange, and I was sure everyone around us was staring. He said it didn't matter. All that mattered was us. That, too, became mundane.

He never pushed me too far, despite how far it already felt. We were never late for a delivery, I never arrived with food on my face. He was never an intrusion, merely a constant. He was just there for my benefit, or so I surmised. Maybe I had looked too lonely.

I didn't feel lonely anymore.

He fit seamlessly into my life without my ever asking. It wasn't that he catered to me, or that he somehow lacked from giving to me, rather it seemed to give him some sort of purpose. He seemed to enjoy how he fit into my life, even as my life changed to accommodate him.

I invited him to dinner sometimes, just on errant whim. He always encouraged me in that way, said I should follow my desires more often. He always supported those decisions, even when they seemed bad, even when I made them just to test his limits. He made sure things never got out of hand, that I always had the most fun, that he always did exactly as I did. It turned into a game of pushing each other, just enough but not too far.

But never inside the front door.

I invited him, but he never came. He always made an excuse that sounded terribly boring, so boring that it absolutely must be true. I found myself pouting at him, rolling my eyes petulantly, and he pouted and rolled right back at me. He moved as if he were going to ruffle my hair but never did. He pushed me with a broad hand right between my shoulder blades. He sent me inside.

I barely realized what was happening then. I started noticing it once things had progressed. There was a change in myself I had not expected. There was a hunger I'd never noticed. The more he denied me, the more I was left wanting. If I was supposed to be spontaneous, if I was supposed to make abrupt decisions and lead us on, why wouldn't he follow me inside?

I was unsatisfied. I found myself lingering more and more before returning home. If he wouldn't follow me inside, I would stay outside with him. We went different places, tried different things. We looked into shops and boutiques, tried on all sorts of ridiculous clothes. We bought them, traded them, laughed when his swallowed me up and when mine stretched to the threads on him. We did everything that came to mind, immediately.

We were happy. I needn't say a word.

We went to clubs sometimes after work. My bag would have a change of clothes in it to separate the parts of my day. We tucked into an alley and stripped down, hastily changing into the colorful, gaudy clothes we'd egged each other on to buy. We stepped out as different people, or so I noticed in the polished windows of the storefronts. I forgot how I looked with my hair down and wild.

I liked it.

I was never nervous with him. It was chaotic and unplanned, we made our evenings as we wished. I felt freer than I had in years. I found myself marveling the following mornings at some of the things I'd done, but it was awe instead of embarrassment. I thought I'd wanted a quiet life that followed the same steps each and every day, but that was almost too mundane, and impulsiveness had become normal and right.

Maybe I should have been afraid to change so much, but it all seemed normal and right. I never went too far, even when he encouraged and indulged me. He pulled me back, scolded me teasingly with a finger to my lips. He left me wanting, but obedient. There was nothing to fear in his arms.

In his arms, where I'd found myself more often than I could have imagined. I don't know when it started. Maybe I just got used to his hand on my back, his arm around my shoulders. Maybe I got used to him holding me up when I was too drunk and exhausted to hold myself up. When it became normal, I'll never know, but we were happy.

Happiness seemed to come at a price. More than once, Granny was waiting for me at all hours when I came home, sitting with a grim expression and a cup of tea. She looked me over, from head to toe, her face unreadable and hard. Where had I been and who was I out with? I told her not to worry, even as I fell over trying to pull off my shoe. Had I been taking my medicine?

No, I hadn't.

But I hadn't felt this good in forever.

Like a magic cure, my headaches had been fading. I couldn't remember the last time I needed to take my medicine. Those pills were replaced with other pills instead, all shapes and colors you could imagine. Some you swallowed, some you chewed, and all came from him. He said he thought I'd like to try them. I did.

It became routine. We finished up work and changed in an alley, I found myself staring at him and imagining what he would feel like against me so bare. We loitered and ran, dodged the police and lounged in clubs. We drank, we took pills, I fell asleep on his chest and woke up to his hand on my back, pushing me inside.

I didn't want to go in.

I barely realized I was doing it that first time. I'd grabbed the front of his hoodie and boosted myself on my toes as I dragged him down. The kiss was a mess, sloppy and wet and misaligned, but his lips were soft and full and forgiving of my poor aim. The hand that pushed me drew me in immediately, crushing me against his chest, pulling the air from my lungs in a high-pitched note of surprise and lust.

My back met the door and he pressed me against it, our mouths meeting again and again in a hot, slick assault. I couldn't remember how long it had been since I'd been with someone, much less so passionately, but I needed it more and more with each audible smack. He was similarly insatiable, as if he'd spent every moment we shared needing me just as badly as I needed him.

The door opened behind me and I spilled inside in a heap. He caught himself on the frame above me, looking Granny in the face. They shared a long, unbroken stare as I scrambled up between them. The moment my legs were out of the way, she slammed it shut and he was gone.

I laid awake at night, thinking about him. What would it feel like to have our bodies pressed hotly together, tangling the sheets around us. I thought of how it might feel to rest against his broad chest and how his weight would sink me into the mattress. Had I started something unstoppable? Did I care if I had?

I touched myself religiously, giving in to every feverish fantasy that sprung to mind.

He didn't show up the next day, or the day after that. As if there had been some horrible shift in the universe, he was gone. I walked alone, barely even speaking to Ren. I pouted through each delivery, made small-talk with no one. Haga-san even asked me if there was anything wrong, but there wasn't. Not really.

I just wished he was here.

I was tired of the mundane life I'd been clinging to. I wanted the changes, fast and irrevocable. I wanted to keep pushing each other further. I wanted more of him to surprise me and more of me to surprise myself. I embraced it, and I craved it.

He answered my call when it came through. I was relieved beyond measure. A single word of greeting, cheerful and dangerous, and I purred my own back into my Coil. I told him I needed to see him. I told him I was leaving home.

We are heading to his place now. We haven't said much. There's a light in his eyes I've only glimpsed before, and I wonder if there's a matching light in mine. I'm not paying attention to where we're going, just to how his fingers curl over and around mine. We walk, hand in hand, and I leave it all behind.

Maybe tomorrow I'll quit.

I'm planning to stay indefinitely.

I'm excited beyond measure. A calm has settled over me, knowing my decision is correct. I wonder if he'll be there too, and if we can all drink together. I feel like he wouldn't mind that, that somehow we'd all just fall into place. Maybe we'd fall into bed.

I'm ecstatic but dulled.

The red stuff is taking hold.

I can't wait for what he has planned.


End file.
